A Beautiful Man
by Juushika Redgrave
Summary: In the morning, just awoken, Gackt admires and explores a beautiful man. Soft yaoi, references malemale sexual acts.


Disclaimers, Warnings, and Notes: I do not own Gackt (but more's the pity). I am making no profit. This fic was written as a Secret Santa holiday gift, and so properly belongs to a user named Ainotorikomi. Contains references to male/male sexual acts.

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A Beautiful Man

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He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, without a doubt. He is pale, flawless, a pantheon of cliche rightly reserved for the gods, and I love him. This is perhaps the most naked anyone will ever see him, a view reserved for me, in the mornings, before makeup and hair driers, while he is ruffled and raw and pure. I cherish this view alone more than I have cherished any lover before, because this view is more intimate, more seductive than anything any one of them had to offer me.

His skin is bloodless, almost porcelain, still trapped in sleep. His mouth is slightly parted and his lips are thick and wet, shinning with a first drink of cold, clear water. Sleep falls from him like a white bed sheet as he stretches up and rolls his head back. His neck cracks twice, softly, and his eyes begin to take on that familiar suspicious glint. During the day and long into the night they will be blue but for now they are brown, darker, almost black, and his contact wait on the right of the sink. Tired eyeliner makes gray shadows around his eyes and his lashes are as thick and as soft as kitten's fur. Today his hair is brown, a few shades lighter than he was born with; it sweeps down the sides of his face, tucks behind his ears, and brushes the back of his neck. He is barely more than half awake, he is stretching and waking up, and he is still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

After a shower his skin is flushed but he is awake and alert and now he faces me readily, carefully, eagerly. His eyelids fall heavily when he looks back at me. These would be called bedroom eyes except that they glint with the white light of the overhead fixture reflected off tile and porcelain and brushed nickel fixtures. He checks the lock on the bathroom door and then walks forward, closer, until I can see his eyelashes, thick and wet from the water, and when he leans forward to whisper a soft, deep greeting his warm breath fogs my cheek. That warmth promises more than words and fragments of praise -- there is lust in it too, and heat, and wet.

He turns his head away, half coy, when I reach out to touch his face. His skin is as cool, as inhumanly smooth as a piece of polished glass, and a shiver passes through me from fingertip to tailbone, a deliciously cold electric buzz that pricks the downy hair along my spine. When I lean in my whole body is overcome by it, that cold, that shiver. His eyelids grow lazy and flutter down from heavy to nearly closed but he is watching me, up close, and I am watching him, watching the dark hairs on his brow, the smooth line of his nose, the flesh and peach tones of his parted lips. My eyes close when his do, and then I am touching him, his hair, his closed eyes, the curve of his ear, lower, the start of his shoulder, his collarbone, the side of his chest. Cold before, he is now mercilessly hot, burning, flushed, heating me. His skin is smooth, his hair soft, there are still spots of moisture from the shower scattered on his perfect skin. There is heavy breathing and then soft moans in the air, and I have to support myself on the countertop, leaning against it, the edge pressing hard into my back. Everything after that happens too quickly and is hard to remember, but it is as warm as his shower and as decadent as fine chocolate, heated and soft and smooth, rolling, delicate, pounding my skin, blissful.

Afterward I can push myself back up, wipe myself down with a fresh white towel, and turn back to the sink. Only afterward can I see my reflection as glass and mirror and light. I can brush and dry my hair. I can iron and dress and arrange. I can put in my contact and decorate myself with gloss and shadow and some silver jewelry. I am still beautiful when I am done, perhaps more so, but my desperate desire has faded and now I can walk away, start my day, do my job. I do not call myself Gackt for nothing: it is more than a stage name: it is a persona, it is a life, and I am the stage of my own performance. Yet in the morning -- my excuse is that I am barely awake -- I am raw and honest, at least for once, and I am flesh and heat and more than a reflection in a mirror.


End file.
